After the Fall
by MephistoPetricore
Summary: Prelude to an upcoming fanfiction that takes place three years after the Reichenbach Fall. This prelude follows John as he copes with Sherlock's apparent death.


**Author's Note**

_To add some context, this oneshot is written after the Reichenbach Fall, which is the third episode of the second series. In the canon, Sherlock fakes his death for three years, so this is the three years in question, from John's point of view. Enjoy!  
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><p>A cacophony of curses cascaded into the air as one Dr. John Watson stubbed his toe for the umpteenth time on the corner of his late flatmate's unmade bed. He briefly considered moving the bed out; Mycroft had insisted on reclaiming his brother's belongings, so it wouldn't hurt to include Sherlock's bed. He sat down on the mattress, which sagged in submission to his weight. His leg was acting up again, though to tell the truth, it'd never really stopped after the Incident.<p>

Mrs. Hudson had been coming up occasionally – or more than occasionally – to help out with the moving. Or really, talk him through the moving. He couldn't tell how many times she'd come; he'd lost track of time. More than once she had seen through his thinning façade, despite his best efforts. Of course, being Mrs. Hudson, dear old woman that she is, she attempted to help as much as she could. One suggestion stuck out:

"You know, Dear, when I was a young girl I kept a diary. I didn't write as much as you write in that blog of yours, but it helped whenever I was feeling blue."

With that, she'd handed him a journal, and hugged him goodbye. After she'd left, he'd tossed the gift aside, with no intention of ever using it. The journal slipped to the back of his mind as other worries consumed him.

He had not seriously considered Mrs. Hudson's advice until now. The thoughts were weighing on his mind, eager to escape. Quickly, John grabbed his laptop, with the same password as always. He'd never bothered to change it, since Sherlock would have undoubtedly figured it out again. He logged into his blog, but wrote nothing. Everyone read his blog; he would never post his personal qualms there. Instead, he went to the "Administrator's Only" section of the site. It required a password, and because only he knew said password, it was the perfect place to record his thoughts. Tentatively, John began to type.

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><p><strong>June 2, 2012 8:06 pm<strong>

_I'm not sure why I'm writing this. Sherlock is just missing, that's all. He does this occasionally. Like the time he went to the United States for two weeks and came back with a broken arm and a black eye. He refused to tell me why, the stubborn mule that he is. Even so, it doesn't take much imagination to figure that he pissed someone off, as always. Apparently Americans simply don't have as much restraint. More power to them._

_Sherlock is just...missing for a bit longer this time. He'll return though, I'm sure of it. That still doesn't tell me why Mycroft is insisting on clearing out Sherlock's things. It's not as if he died or something. Jumping from high places and risking his life to prove he's clever is not something new. I've tried to tell Mycroft that Sherlock will only be gone for a bit, and that he can take care of himself, but he just shakes his head at me and continues sending his men to clean out the flat. Somehow they can always tell when something is Sherlock's and when something is mine. In any case, I still have Mrs. Hudson. And Harry, when she isn't drinking. Mrs. Hudson has been kind enough to lower the flat fee for a while. I'm not sure how long; she never said. I should be able to live without Sherlock. For a while anyway._

April 29, 2013 8:10 pm

_ It's been a year now. A year full of waiting, hoping, and suppressing. Still no word from Sherlock. That's just like him though. Obviously he doesn't want to be found, for one reason or another. And he doesn't want me to blow his cover, so I can't know for certain if he's dead or alive. _

_Oh God, I hope he's alive._

_ Christmas without him was different. No violin at three in the morning. No tinsel on the skull (we got it back from Mrs. Hudson, finally). No socially inept conversations. No new girlfriends to break up with. It was peaceful, just with Mrs. Hudson. Peaceful has become quite boring. Of course, with Sherlock, things were – _**are**_ – never boring. On the bright side, I was able to put up lights in Sherlock's room, bare as it was. I can imagine his face if he came back and saw that. Sadly, that was not the case. Christmas was uneventful. _

_ Mycroft kidnapped me again today. Using his usual methods, I met with him in some abandoned place or another. I can never tell where we are when we meet. As always, "Anthea" was in the car. The name really doesn't suit her, does it? At any rate, Mycroft only seemed to want to know how I was "holding up." I don't know why everyone thinks that I'd be more depressed today than any other day. I know it's the anniversary of the Incident, but I, unlike they, don't believe he's dead. He's only hiding. I know it. He must be. He can't be dead. He would never be dead. They haven't found a body. He isn't dead! He must have known what he was doing when he went to meet with Moriarty! He never does anything without some sort of a plan! _

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><p><strong>October 31, 2013 6:05 pm<strong>

_ Halloween today. Still no sign of Hatman. No calls or texts. No notes. Nothing. Not to be discouraged though, I know he's out there and alive. I just know it. In any case, it's starting to get cold again. Not that London is ever particularly warm. Mrs. Hudson is downstairs handing out candy. Apparently she always gets loads of trick-or-treaters. They all know how kind she is. Such a sweet woman. Every other day she seems to ask me how I am. As if she has anything to worry about. I'm fine. Really, I am. I've even been able to find another job as a doctor. Things have been quite...normal. Occasionally I get a call from a potential client asking to take a case, but I have to keep telling them that Sherlock isn't around. They ask when he'll be back, and I really don't know what to tell them. I don't want to tell them he's dead, because he isn't. He can't be. But no one seems to believe me when I say that. So I just say he's taking a break from cases. It seems quite unlikely to anyone who knows him, however, to the clients, they swallow the lie and hang up, never to be heard from again. _

_I miss him_

_God, do I miss him_

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><p><strong>January 1, 2014 2:09 pm<strong>

_ Another year gone by, without Sherlock. I'm not sure if I'll ever get used to this life without him. Two years without even a message or a text? I suppose that seems more like him than not, but God, does he even care about me at all? I know he should be coming back soon. He will be coming back soon. _

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><p><strong>April 29, 2014 1:04 am<strong>

_ Second anniversary today. It was a horrible day today. Bloody awful. The worst time I've had in years. Worse than when I got shot. _

_ It's started to occur to me, or maybe I've only now stopped repressing the thought, that, perhaps, Sherlock _didn't_ have a plan. I mean, I know he usually has a plan, but he guesses a lot more than people think he does. And he plans much less than even that. That time with the cabbie, for instance. I'm damn sure he didn't have a plan then, even if he claimed he would never take the pill. Claimed he wouldn't get hurt. As if. He was winging it. And even if Lestrade thinks he had a plan, I know he didn't. Even when we go on our daring adventures, he doesn't quite have a fully formed plan. Perhaps an idea of what we'll do, but I'm pretty sure he makes it up as he goes along. Even in the museum, he didn't have a plan. Even with the Golem, he had no real plan. Even with Moriarty, at the pool, he clearly had no plan. Just wanted to play games. To risk his life. To prove he's clever. As fucking usual. _

_ Mycroft only gave a call this time. No kidnapping today. He seems to think I've had enough time to deal with Sherlock's disappearance after the Fall. And maybe, perhaps, possibly, I have. I still hope, really I do, that Sherlock is alive, but at this point, after two years, it seems silly to ignore the facts. Sherlock always drew conclusions from all the facts, not just some of them. I haven't been looking at the big picture. I've been lying to myself. I know I have. I couldn't help it. I couldn't accept the fact that_

_That_

_He's_

_Dead._

_He must be._

_There is no other logical explanation. I can keep on hoping, praying, that he's alive, but I can't live as if he is. I know I thought everyone else was proclaiming his death too soon. It's still true that they haven't found a body yet. And I know there's still a possibility of him being alive. For now though, I can't live in a delusion. For all intents and purposes, Sherlock is dead._

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><p><strong>May 3, 2014 7:03 pm<strong>

_I put the rest of Sherlock's things, what I had been able to salvage after the Mycroft tornado, in a safety deposit box. There's not a big chance that Sherlock will come back. Not very big at all. I can't keep living like there is, so I'm putting his things out of my sight, so I can get him out of my mind. I'm not sure how well that will work. Since I've admitted to myself that Sherlock is dead, I've been thinking of him more than I should. I miss him. I miss having to clean up after him. The flat is too clean. Too organized. Too…unlike Sherlock. This was his flat first. It can't only be mine. I haven't changed the name on the lease yet. We're still both on there. I suppose I should really get around to it, shouldn't I? Every time I try, though, I never really can bring myself to do it. To finally relinquish all hope. I suppose that's not very healthy, is it? _

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><p><strong>July 5, 2014 3:02 am<strong>

_Nothing happens to me. _

_ Anymore._

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><p><strong>September 18, 2014 6:45 pm<strong>

_Thunderstorms today, ravaging the skies. How fitting. Nature loves to make fun of me, doesn't she? I meant to go to the market today, but the weather was too much. The front door kept being blown open downstairs. Eventually, Mrs. Hudson and I had to bolt it shut. I tried to read for a bit, since there wasn't much else to do. The computer has bored me for quite some time now. Reading wasn't a great idea either. Usually I can keep my mind focused, but it kept drifting off today. _

_ I used to wonder if Sherlock was still alive. I knew he was probably dead, but maybe that crafty devil found a way not to die from such a fall. Now I know that I was still living a partial delusion. I know that for a while I've been able to say, at least to the world, that I believed that Sherlock was dead. I still had this harbored hope, though, that somehow, he lived. I had to face facts. All of them. I couldn't simply say one thing, and believe another. Sherlock. Is. Dead. I had to admit this to myself if I was ever going to find peace. I went into the bathroom about an hour ago and stared into the mirror. I saw a broken man. A man who was tortured by his harbored hope. I knew I couldn't go on like this. I spoke softly into the mirror, "Sherlock is dead." I said it again, louder. And then once more, much louder. And again, screaming at the top of my lungs. At that point, I heard Mrs. Hudson running up the stairs, no doubt to make sure I hadn't gone insane. I'm not quite sure I haven't. After finally assuring her I was fine, just having a revelation, I was able to get her back downstairs. She still seemed a bit worried though. For a good reason. I feel better now than I have in a long, long time. I know that Sherlock is dead, he must be. I can't see how he could have lived. Still though, to finally be free of my hope is the most liberating feeling. Sherlock's death still hurts, and I still miss him. I'm not sure I'll ever stop missing him. But finally coming to terms with his death has freed me of the hope that burdened me even more for the past two or so years._

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><p><strong>February 14, 2015 2:21 pm<strong>

_ I haven't written here in a while. Maybe that's a good thing. Maybe not. I'm not really sure. All I know is that I've felt better in these last five months than I have in the past two-going-on-three years. There's one thing that keeps bugging me. It's been sort of at the back of my mind, but it's been surfacing more and more lately. Why didn't he want me to be there when he and Moriarty faced off? Did he know he was going to die? Did he want to keep me out of harm's way, or did he just want me out of his way? Did he not trust me not to interfere? But why do I care about this? He was only a friend to me. I have to tell everyone that at least once a week. I've heard the snickering and the jokes and all the office pools about us. I try to ignore it though. So what if Sherlock stood a little closer than normal when we discussed a case? He just didn't have a great idea of personal space. And so what if he tore off my clothes in a darkened swimming pool? I was wearing a coat of bombs! He was probably more concerned about the bombs detonating near us, even if he did keep asking if I was alright. And so what if he always yelled for me, even when I was out of the flat. And so what if he seemed to rely on me more for each case. And so what if he cared more for my opinions than he did for the opinions of anyone else? And so what if he called out my name when he first came out of his drugged stupor after his meeting with The Woman? And so what if he was able to make a supposedly gay woman fall for him? And so what if we were handcuffed together? It doesn't mean anything! We were just friends. It didn't mean anything then, and it shouldn't mean anything now! It shouldn't. _

_It does, though_

_It really, really does._

_All of what he did, what he used to do, matters. I can't get any of it out of my head. I'm driving myself mad with these "what if's." _

_What if all that he did meant, and still means, something? Am I being fanciful? Or was there something there that I was too thick to notice before? _

_Did I love Sherlock Holmes? Do I still? _

_Fuck._


End file.
